


Olympics

by yeaka



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Ficlet, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-13 22:49:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28661256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Ignis goes to rescue Noctis from royal lameness.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 29





	Olympics

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: They’re playing [Noctball.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28660449)
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Final Fantasy XV or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Noctis has, and often will use, Ignis’ personal number when he needs rescuing, even though he need only ever wait a few hours and Ignis will be there anyway—Ignis’ entire life consists of just running in and out of Noctis’. He drops Noctis off with Gladiolus at ten for regular training and the ‘surprise’ the council devised—a brand new sport specially made for their beloved prince with all safety precautions in mind. Then Ignis drives home to prepare his—and Noctis’—meals for the weak. Once finished, he returns to the Citadel to run through some paperwork. Then, finally, he goes to fetch Noctis and get him ready for a gala halfway across town. Ignis full expects Noctis to call earlier than that. He keeps the phone on his desk while he fills out forms, just waiting for it to go off. Having been apprised earlier of just what this incredibly safe sport entails, he highly doubts Noctis is actually going to use up the three hours allotted to it. 

But those hours pass, and Noctis doesn’t call, so Ignis can only imagine Gladiolus has managed to handle the inevitable outburst of shame and fury. Gladiolus was, after all, supposed to supervise. And he’s every bit as capable of handling Noctis’ infantile temper as Ignis is. Figuring they might’ve run off to an arcade or fast food restaurant to soothe Noctis’ indignation, Ignis texts Gladiolus to ask where exactly he should pick up their wayward prince. 

Gladiolus answers, _Training yard 3B. He’s playing that new sport you guys made, remember?_

Ignis had nothing to do with it. He often sits on the council and takes special interest whenever Noctis’ name comes up. But as much as he understands why they can’t let Noctis join any old school sports team, he still wouldn’t have subjected Noctis to the nonsense they settled on. Noctis is, despite his often childish attitude, a young adult perfectly capable of kicking a ball around a field without injuring himself and jeopardizing the throne. Astrals know he and Gladiolus use real weapons during training. 

The chaos of a public sport is, perhaps, a different animal, but Ignis still would’ve found another solution. He doesn’t relish facing Noctis. But he does imagine he can forgo the usual vegetable-rich force-feeding for dinner and allow Noctis something nice, and then they can watch one of his favourite awful movies, and Ignis will pet his hair and play games with him until he forgets his petulance. Pocketing his phone, Ignis leaves the office and heads down through the Citadel, out into the grounds.

He weaves through the various gardens and fields, drawn by the telltale clash of training glaives and knowing the sport Noctis is playing probably won’t make any noise at all. When he reaches training yard 3B, the first thing he hears is Gladiolus loudly munching popcorn. He’s sitting cross-legged on the earth, his back against the wall Ignis just came through. Several other thick-set officials sit or stand along the same wall and the one opposite—some Ignis recognizes from inside the Citadel, others from the Crownsguard. More than one have the same generic paper bowl of popcorn as Gladiolus, and all are focusing on what’s in front of them. Gladiolus is too. He’s avidly watching the scene at the center of the field: Noctis _and_ Prompto frantically waving paper fans in an attempt to move a single brown feather out of the reach of two burly glaives. 

“Are they—?”

“Shhh,” Gladiolus cuts him off, staring intently as the feather takes a dip towards the ground and one of the glaives swoops underneath it, effectively blowing it to her partner. Noctis and Prompto let out twin cries of distress as she starts waving it towards the other end of the field, where Noctis’ and Prompto’s pillow is waiting. They’re so engrossed in their game that they don’t seem to notice Ignis standing there when they turn around. They dart on either side of the glaive currently in command of the feather, trying to blow it up and out of her wind. Prompto even hollows out his cheeks and blows with his mouth, as though his breath could ever contend with the frantic waving of their fans. 

Ignis watches the struggle for a few curious seconds before reminding Gladiolus, “I’m supposed to pick him up.”

One of the random guards within earshot lets out a disappointed sound. “Just wait,” Gladiolus mutters. He shoves a handful of popcorn into his mouth, chews, and swallows. “You can’t ruin the match now.”

Ignis stares down at him, dazed, because when he’d first relayed the council’s idea to Gladiolus, Gladiolus had laughed for several minutes straight. They’d both agreed that trying to waft a feather onto an opposing team’s pillow was an absolutely ridiculous idea that in no way constituted an actual sport. But now Gladiolus seems glued to the game, and when Ignis turns his eyes on the field, he realizes just how into it _everybody_ is. One of the playing glaives has perspiration dotting her brow, the other clenching her teeth. Noctis has that certain look in his eye that he only gets during particularly hard final bosses, and Prompto’s never looked so determined. They’re all waving their fans so fast that Ignis imagines Noctis won’t be able to even lift his wrist tomorrow. 

It’s completely ridiculous. He can’t believe it. But he also can’t bring himself to put an end to it, because he could never hurt Noctis and Prompto when they’re clearly so passionate and happy.

Begrudgingly, he takes a seat next to Gladiolus. He reasons that they’ve been at it for several hours, and thus must be close to their end. He checks, “Is this still the first match?”

“Technically second,” Gladiolus answers, without once taking his eye off the feather. “Noctis played a one-on-one match for like... ten minutes-ish, then called Prompto.”

That confirms Ignis’ suspicions. He can’t remember what scoring was agreed upon for the game, but imagines it must be getting close—the four players seem evenly matched. “And how many points until a winner’s decided...?”

“Just one—first point wins.”

“Ah... wait, first?”

“Yeah, score’s zero-zero. But sooner or later, somebody’s gonna reach that pillow!” 

Ignis groans, because the whole world’s gone mad around him. But he’s platonically madly in love with one of those parts, so he sits and waits for his dumbass prince to score.


End file.
